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If God have work for him in th' ends of th' earth,
Safe, danger, hunger, colds, nor any dearth;
A howling wilderness, nor savage men,
Discourage him, he'll follow God again.

And how God hath made him an instrument
To us of quiet, peace and settlement;
I need not speak; the eldest, youngest know,
God honour'd him with greater work than so.

To sum up all, in this he still went hence,
This man was wholly God's; his recompense
Remains beyond expression, and he is
Gone to possess it in eternal bliss.

He's happy, happy thrice: unhappy we
That still remain more changes here to see:
Let's not lament that God hath taken him
From troubles hence, in seas of joys to swim.

The death of Samuel Stone introduces EDWARD, the son of Peter Bulkley, just mentioned. He succeeded his father in his pastoral charge at Concord.

SAMUEL STONE was born at Hartford, England, educated at Cambridge, and came to Plymouth in the same ship with Cotton and Hooker. He accompanied the latter to Hartford, which was named after his native place, where he acted as his associate for fourteen years, and for sixteen more as his successor. The latter part of his life was embittered by a dispute between himself and the ruling elder on a speculative point of divinity, which led to a division of the church. He printed a sermon and left behind him two works in MS., one of which was a body of divinity, "a rich treasure," says Cotton Mather, which has often been transcribed by the vast pains of our candidates for the ministry." Neither has been printed.

A THRENODIA UPON OUR CHURCHES SECOND DARK ECLIPSE,
HAPPENING JULY 20, 1668, BY DEATH'S INTERPOSITION BE-
TWEEN US AND THAT GREAT LIGHT AND DIVINE PLANT, MR.
SAMUEL STONE.

A stone more than the Ebenezer fam'd;
Stone splendent diamond, right orient named;
A cordial stone, that often cheered hearts
With pleasant wit, with Gospel rich imparts;
Whetstone, that edgify'd th' obtusest mind;
Loadstone, that drew the iron heart unkind;
A pond'rous stone, that would the bottom sound
Of Scripture depths, and bring out Arcan's found;
A stone for kingly David's use so fit,

As would not fail Goliah's front to hit;

A stone, an antidote, that brake the course

Of gangrene errour, by convincing force;
A stone acute, fit to divide and square;

A squared stone became Christ's building rare.
A Peter's living, lively stone (so rear'd)

As 'live, was Hartford's life; dead, death is fear'd.
In Hartford old, Stone first drew infant breath,
In New, effus'd his last: O there beneath
His corps are laid, near to his darling brother,
Of whom dead oft he sigh'd, Not such another.
Heaven is the more desirable, said he,
For Hooker, Shepard, and Haynes' company.

E. B. (probably Edward Bulkley).

These lines, remarkable for their quaint simplicity, on John Wilson, are attributed to JONATHAN MITCHELL, a graduate of Harvard of 1647, and the successor of Shepard at Cambridge in 1650. He died in 1668, at the age of forty-four.

UPON THE DEATH OF THAT REVEREND, AGED, EVER HONOURED.
AND GRACIOUS SERVANT OF CHRIST, MR. JOHN WILSON.
Ah! now there's none who does not know,
That this day in our Israel,

Is fall'n a great and good man too,

A Prince, I might have said as well:
A man of princely power with God,
For faith and love of princely spirit;
Our Israel's chariots, horsemen good,
By faith and prayer, though not by merit.
Renown'd for practick piety

In Englands both, from youth to age;
In Cambridge, Inns-Court, Sudbury,
And each place of his pilgrimage.
As humble as a little child,

When yet in real worth high-grown:
Himself a nothing still he stil'd,

When God so much had for him done. In love, a none-such; as the sand,

With largest heart God did him fill, A bounteous mind, an open hand,

Affection sweet, all sweet'ning still. Love was his life; he dy'd in love; Love doth embalm his memory; Love is his bliss and joy, above

With God now who is love for ay: A comprehending charity

To all, where ought appear'd of good; And yet in zeal was none more high Against th' apparent serpent's brood.

Gaius, our host, ah now is gone!

Can we e'er look for such another? But yet there is a mansion,

Where we may all turn in together.
No moving inn, but resting place,

Where his blest soul is gathered;
Where good men going are a pace
Into the bosom of their Head.
Ay, thither let us haste away,

Sure heaven will the sweeter be, (If there we ever come to stay)

For him, and others such as he.

Mitchell, in his turn, is soon commemorated by JOHN SHERMAN, a non-conformist emigrant from England, who officiated at Watertown and New Haven as a clergyman, and took an active part as civil magistrate. He was a mathematician, and published for many years an Almanac, well garnished with moral reflections. He was married twice, and was the father of twenty-six children. He died at the age of sixty-two, in 1675.

AN EPITAPH upon the deplored deATH OF THAT SUPERENINENT MINISTER OF THE GOSPEL, MR. JONATHAN MITCHELL..

Here lies the darling of his time,

Mitchell expired in his prime;

Who four years short of forty-seven,

Was found full ripe and pluck'd for heaven.
Was full of prudent zeal and love,
Faith, patience, wisdom from above;
New-England's stay, next age's story;
The churches gem; the college glory.
Angels may speak him; ah! not I,
(Whose worth's above Hyperbole)
But for our loss, wer't in my power,
I'd weep an everlasting shower.

J. S.*

SCOTTow, a J. S. has also been supposed to refer to JOSHUA merchant of Boston. The only

Guided by these initials only, we are inclined to attribute the lines to which they are annexed, to the Rev. John Sherman, (Davis's note.)

ANNE BRADSTREET.

dates known in reference to his life, are those of his admission to church membership in the Old Church, Boston, on "the nineteenth of the third month," 1639, with his brother Thomas, as the 66 sonnes of our sister Thomasine Scottowe," the record of the birth of seven of his children, the eldest of whom was born, September 30, 1646; the date of his will, June 23, 1696; and of its probate, March 3, 1698. His name is, however, of frequent recurrence in the town records, and he appears to have maintained throughout his long life an honorable position.

He was the author of Old Men's fears for their own declensions, mixed with fears of their and posterities further falling off from New Published England's Primitive Constitution.

by some of Boston's old Planters, and some other. 1691. pp. 26. It contains a vigorously written presentation of what the writer regarded as the degeneracy of his times.

NEW ENGLAND'S DECLINE.

Our spot is not the spot of God's children; the old Puritan garb, and gravity of heart, and habit lost and ridiculed into strange and fantastic fashions and attire, naked backs and bare breasts, and forehead, if not of the whorish woman, yet so like unto it, as would require a more than ordinary spirit of discernment to distinguish; the virgins dress and matrons veil, showing their power on their heads, because of the holy angels, turned into powdered foretops and top-gallant attire, not becoming the Christian, but the comedian assembly, not the church, but the stage play, where the devil sits regent in his dominion, as he once boasted out of the mouth of a demoniack, church member, he there took possession of, and made this response to the church, supplicating her deliverance; so as now we may and must say, New England is not to be found it is become in New England, nor Boston in Boston; a lost town (as at first it was called); we must now cry out, our leanness, our leanness, our apostacy, our apostacy, our Atheism, spiritual idolatry, adultery, formality in worship, carnal and vain confidence in church privileges, forgetting of God our rock, and multitude of other abominations.

Also a

This tract was reprinted, with the omission of the address to the reader, by D. Gookin, in 1749. In 1694, A Narrative of the Planting of the Massachusetts Colony, Anno 1628, with the Lord's signal presence the first Thirty years. caution from New England's Apostle, the great Cotton, how to escape the calamity, which might befal them or their posterity, and confirmed by the evangelist Norton, with prognostics from the famous Dr. Owen, concerning the fate of these Churches, and Animadversions upon the anger of God in sending of evil angels among us. lished by Old Planters, the authors of the Old Men's Fears, a pamphlet of seventy-eight pages, appeared, much in the style of the author's former productions.*

ANNE BRADSTREET.

Pub

It is with a fine flourish of his learned trump of fame that Cotton Mather, in his Magnalia, introduces Anne Bradstreet, who wrote the first volume of poems published in New England. "If

Memoirs of Scottow, Mass. Hist. Soc. Coll., Second Series, iv. 10.

the rare learning of a daughter was not the least of those bright things which adorned no less a

A Bradstreet

Judge of England than Sir Thomas More; it must now be said, that a Judge of New England, namely, Thomas Dudley, Esq., had a daughter (besides other children) to be a crown unto him. Reader, America justly admires the learned women of the other hemisphere. She has heard of those that were witnesses to the old professors of all philosophy: she hath heard of Hippatia, who formerly taught the liberal arts; and of Sarocchia, who, more lately, was very often the moderatrix in the disputations of the learned men of Rome: she has been told of the three Corinnas, which equalled, if not excelled, the most celebrated poets of their time she has been told of the Empress Eudocia, who composed poetical paraphrases on various parts of the Bible; and of Rosnida, who wrote the lives of holy men; and of Pamphilja, who wrote other histories unto the life: the writings of the most renowned Anna Maria SchurBut she now man, have come over unto her. prays that into such catalogues of authoresses as Beverovicius, Hottinger, and Voetius, have given unto the world, there may be a room now given unto Madam Ann Bradstreet, the daughter of our Governor Dudley, and the consort of our Governor Bradstreet, whose poems, divers times printed, have afforded a grateful entertainment unto the ingenious, and a monument for her memory beyond the stateliest marbles."

Thomas Dudley, the father of this gifted lady, had been a soldier of the Protestant wars of Elizabeth in the Low Countries, and afterwards retrieved the fortunes of the Earl of Lincoln by his He came faithful stewardship of his estates.

over to Massachusetts with a party of Puritan refugees, among whom was his son-in-law, Simon Bradstreet, from the Earl's county, in 1630; and four years afterwards, succeeded Winthrop as Governor of the Colony. In addition to his various valorous and religious qualities, he would appear from an Epitaph, of which Mather gives us a poetical translation, to have been something of a book-worm.

In books a prodigal, they say;
A living cyclopædia;

Of histories of church and priest,
A full compendium, at least;
A table-talker, rich in sense,
And witty without wit's pretence.

So that the daughter may have inherited some of her learning. Morton, in his "Memorial," has preserved these lines by Dudley, found in his pocket after his death, which exhibit the severity of his creed and practice.

Dim eyes, deaf ears, cold stomach shew
My dissolution is in view;
Eleven times seven near lived have I,
And now God calls, I willing die:
My shuttle's shot, my race is run,
My sun is set, my deed is done;
My span is measured, tale is told,
My flower is faded and grown old,
My dream is vanished, shadow's fled,

My soul with Christ, my body dead;
Farewell dear wife, children, and friends,
Hate heresy, make blessed ends;
Bear poverty, live with good men,
So shall we meet with joy again.

Let men of God in courts and churches watch,

O'er such as do a toleration hatch;

Lest that ill egg bring forth a cockatrice,
To poison all with heresy and vice.

If men be left, and otherwise combine,
My epitaph's, I dy'd no libertine.

The cares of married life would not appear to have interrupted Mistress Bradstreet's acquisitions, for she was married at the age of sixteen, and her poetry was written in the early part of her life. As she had eight children, and addressed herself particularly to their education,* the cradle and the Muse must have been competitors for her attention. Her reading, well stuffed with the facts of ancient history, was no trifle for the memory; but we may suppose the mind to have been readily fixed on books, and even pedantic learning to have been a relief, where there were no diversions to distract when the household labors of the day were over. Then there is the native passion for books, which will find its own opportunities. The little volume of her poems, published in London, in 1650, is entitled The Tenth Muse, lately sprung up in America; or, Several Poems, compiled with great variety of wit and learning, full of delight: wherein especially is contained a complete Discourse and Description of the Four Elements, Constitutions, Ages of Man, Seasons of the Year. Together with an Exact Epitome of the Four Monarchies, viz., the Assyrian, Persian, Grecian, Roman. Also a Dialogue between Old England and New concerning the late troubles, with divers other pleasant and serious Poems. By a Gentlewoman in those parts. A more complete edition was published in Boston in 1678, which contains her Contemplations, a moral and descriptive poem, the best specimen of her pen; The Flesh and the Spirit, a dialogue, and several poems on family incidents, left among her private papers.

The formal natural history and historical topics, which compose the greater part of her writings, are treated with doughty resolution, but without much regard to poetical equality. The plan is simple. The elements of the world, fire, air, earth, and water; the humors of the constitution, the choleric, the sanguine, the melancholy, and phlegmatic; childhood, youth, manhood, and age; spring, summer, autumn, and winter, severally come up and say what they can of themselves, of their powers and opportunities, good and evil, with the utmost fairness. The four ancient monarchies are catalogued in a similar way. It is not to be denied, that, if there is not much poetry in these productions, there is considerable information. For the readers of those times they con

She records the number in the posthumous lines In Reference to her Children. 23d June, 1656:

I had eight birds hatch't in the nest;
Four cocks there were, and hens the rest;

I nurst them up with pain and care,

For cost nor labor did I spare,

Till at the last they felt their wing,
Mounted the trees, and learned to sing.

There are two pages more in continuation of this simile.

tained a very respectable digest of the old historians, and a fair proportion of medical and scientific knowledge. It is amusing to see this mother in Israel writing of the Spleen with the zest of an anatomist.

If any doubt this truth, whence this should come, Show them the passage to the duodenum.

The good lady must have enjoyed the perusal of Phineas Fletcher's Purple Island, a dissecting theatre in a book, which appeared in 1633. Her descriptions are extremely literal. She writes as if under bonds to tell the whole truth, which she does without any regard to the niceties or scruples of the imagination. Thus her account of childhood begins at the beginning somewhat earlier than a modern poetess would tax the memory of the muse; and she thinks it necessary to tell us in her account of winter, how,

Beef, brawn and pork, are now in great'st request, And solid'st meats our stomachs can digest.

When we come upon any level ground in these poems, and are looking round to enjoy the prospect, we may prepare ourselves for a neighboring pitfall. In "Summer" we set forth trippingly afield

Now go those frolic swains, the shepherd lad,
To wash their thick-cloth'd flocks, with pipes full
glad.

In the cool streams they labor with delight,
Rubbing their dirty coats, till they look white.

With a little more taste our poetess might have been a happy describer of nature, for she had a warm heart and a hearty view of things. The honesty of purpose which mitigates her pedantry, sometimes displays itself in a purer simplicity. The account of the flowers and the little bird in Spring might find a place in the sincere, delicate poems of Dana, who has a family relationship with the poetess.

The primrose pale, and azure violet,

Among the verdurous grass hath nature set,
That when the sun (on's love) the earth doth shine,
These might, as love, set out her garments fine;
The fearful bird his little house now builds,
In trees, and walls, in cities, and in fields;
The outside strong, the inside warm and neat,
A natural artificer complete.

In the historic poems, the dry list of dynasties is sometimes relieved by a homely unction and humor in the narrative, as in the picture of the progress of Alexander and the Persian host of Darius-though much of this stuff is sheer doggrel, as in the Life and Death of Semiramis :

She like a brave virago play'd the rex,
And was both shame and glory of her sex.

Forty-two years she reign'd, and then she dy'd,
But by what means, we are not certified.

If sighs for "imbecility" can get pardon for bad verses, we should think only of Mrs. Bradstreet's good ones for her poems are full of these deprecatory acknowledgments.

The literary father of Mrs. Bradstreet was Silver-tongued Sylvester, whose translation of Du Bartas was a popular book among Puritan readers

ANNE BRADSTREET.

at the beginning of the seventeenth century. His quaint volumes, which will be remembered as favorites with Southey's simple-minded Dr. Daniel Dove, were both poetical and devout; and if they led our author's taste astray, they also strengthened her finest susceptibilities. She has left a warm poem "in his honor," in which there is an original and very pretty simile.

My Muse unto a child, I fitly may compare,
Who sees the riches of some famous fair;
He feeds his eyes, but understanding lacks,
To comprehend the worth of all those knacks;
The glittering plate, and jewels, he admires,
The hats and fans, and flowers, and ladies' tires;
And thousand times his 'mazed mind doth wish
Some part, at least, of that brave wealth was his;
But seeing empty wishes nought obtain,
At night turns to his mother's cot again,
And tells her tales (his full heart over glad)
Of all the glorious sights his eyes have had:
But finds too soon his want of eloquence,
The silly prattler speaks no word of sense;
And seeing utterance fail his great desires,
Sits down in silence.

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The Authoresse was a right Du Bartas girle.

Mrs. Bradstreet was also a reader of Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, which she has characterized with more minuteness than others who have written upon it, in an Elegy which she penned forty-eight years after the fall of that mirror of knighthood at Zutphen.

Ann Bradstreet died 16th September, 1672, at the age of sixty. That she had not altogether survived her poetical reputation in England, is shown by an entry in Edward Phillips's (the nephew of Milton) Theatrum Poetarum, in 1674, where the title of her Poems is given, and their memory pronounced "not yet wholly extinct." A third edition, reprinted from the second, appeared in 1758.

CONTEMPLATIONS.

Some time now past in the Autumnal Tide,

When Phoebus wanted but one hour to bed,
The trees all richly clad, yet void of pride,
Were gilded o'er by his rich golden head.
Their leaves and fruits seem'd painted, but was true
Of green, of red, of yellow, mixed hew,
Wrapt were my senses at this delectable view.

I wist not what to wish, yet sure thought I,
If so much excellence abide below;
How excellent is He, that dwells on high!

Whose power and beauty by his works we know.
Sure he is goodness, wisdome, glory, light,
That hath this under world so richly dight:
More heaven than earth was here, no winter and no
night.

Then on a stately oak I cast mine eye,

Whose ruffling top the clouds seem'd to aspire; How long since thou wast in thine infancy?

Thy strength, and stature, more thy years admire. Hath hundred winters past since thou wast born? Or thousands since thou brak'st thy shell of horn, If so, all these as nought, eternity doth scorn.

VOL. 1.-4

Then higher on the glittering sun I gaz'd, Whose beams were shaded by the leavie tree, The more I look'd, the more I grew amaz'd,

And softly said, what glory's like to thee? Soul of this world, this Universe's eye, No wonder, some made thee a deity; Had I not better known (alas), the same had L

Thou as a bridegroom from thy chamber rushest,
And as a strong man, joyes to run a race,
The morn doth usher thee, with smiles and blushes,
The earth reflects her glances in thy face.
Birds, insects, animals with vegetive,

Thy heart from death and dulness doth revive:
And in the darksome womb of fruitful nature dive.

Thy swift annual, and diurnal course,

Thy daily straight, and yearly oblique path, Thy pleasing fervor, and thy scorching force,

All mortals here the feeling knowledge hath. Thy presence makes it day, thy absence night, Quaternal seasons caused by thy might: Hail creature, full of sweetness, beauty and delight. Art thou so full of glory, that no eye

Hath strength, thy shining rayes once to behold And is thy splendid throne erect so high?

As to approach it, can no earthly mould. How full of glory then must thy Creator be, Who gave this bright light luster unto thee! Admir'd, ador'd for ever, be that Majesty.

Silent alone, where none or saw, or heard,

In pathful paths I lead my wandering feet,
My humble eyes to lofty skyes I rear'd
To sing some song, my mazed Muse thought meet.
My great Creator I would magnifie,
That nature had thus decked liberally:
But Ah, and Ah, again my imbecility!

I heard the merry grasshopper then sing,
The black clad cricket, bear a second part,
They kept one tune, and plaid on the same string,
Seeming to glory in their little art.

Shall creatures abject, thus their voices raise?
And in their kind resound their maker's praise:
Whilst I as mute, can warble forth no higher layes.
When present times look back to ages past,
And men in being fancy those are dead,
It makes things gone perpetually to last,

And calls back months and years that long since
fled.

It makes a man more aged in conceit,

Than was Methuselah, or's grand-sire great;
While of their persons and their acts his mind doth

treat.

Sometimes in Eden fair he seems to be,

Sees glorious Adam there made Lord of all, Fancyes the Apple, dangle on the Tree,

That turn'd his Sovereign to a naked thral. Who like a miscreant's driven from that place, To get his bread with pain, and sweat of face: A penalty impos'd on his backsliding race. Here sits our Grandame in retired place,

And in her lap, her bloody Cain new born, The weeping imp oft looks her in the face,

Bewails his unknown hap, and fate forlorn; His mother sighs, to think of Paradise, And how she lost her bliss, to be more wise, Believing him that was, and is, Father of lyes. Here Cain and Abel come to sacrifice,

Fruits of the earth, and fatlings each do bring; On Abel's gift the fire descends from skies, But no such sign on false Cain's offering;

LIBR

OF THOS

With sullen hateful looks he goes his wayes..
Hath thousand thoughts to end his brother's dayes,
Upon whose blood his future good he hopes to
raise.

There Abel keeps his sheep, no ill he thinks,

His brother comes, then acts his fratricide, The Virgin Earth, of blood her first draught drinks, But since that time she often hath been cloy'd; The wretch with ghastly face and dreadful mind, Thinks each he sees will serve him in his kind, Though none on Earth but kindred near then could he find.

Who fancyes not his looks now at the bar,

His face like death, his heart with horror fraught, Nor male-factor ever felt like war,

When deep despair, with wish of life hath fought, Branded with guilt, and crusht with treble woes, A vagabond to Land of Nod he goes,

A city builds, that walls might him secure from foes.

Who thinks not oft upon the Fathers ages,

Their long descent, how nephew's sons they saw, The starry observations of those Sages,

And how their precepts to their sons were law. How Adam sigh'd to see his progeny, Clothed all in his black sinfull livery,

Who neither guilt, nor yet the punishment could fly.

Our Life compare we with their length of dayes,
Who to the tenth of theirs doth now arrive?
And though thus short, we shorten many ways,
Living so little while we are alive;

In eating, drinking, sleeping, vain delight,
So unawares comes on perpetual night,

And puts all pleasures vain unto eternal flight.

When I behold the heavens as in their prime, And then the earth (though old) still clad in green,

The stones and trees, insensible of time,

Nor age nor wrinkle on their front are seen; If winter come, and greenness then do fade, A Spring returns, and they more youthful made; But Man grows old, lies down, remains where once

he's laid.

By birth more noble than those creatures all,
Yet seems by nature and by custome cursed,
No sooner born, but grief and care make fall

That state obliterate he had at first.

Nor youth nor strength, nor wisdom spring again,
Nor habitations long their names retain,
But in oblivion to the final day remain.

Shall I then praise the heavens, the trees, the earth, Because their beauty and their strength last longer?

Shall I wish their, or never to had birth,

Because they're bigger, and their bodyes stronger? Nay, they shall darken, perish, fade and dye, And when unmade, so ever shall they lye, But man was made for endless immortality. Under the cooling shadow of a stately elm Close sate I by a goodly River's side, Where gliding streams the rocks did overwhelm; A lonely place, with pleasures dignified. I once that lov'd the shady woods so well, Now thought the rivers did the trees excell, And if the sun would ever shine, there would I dwell.

While on the stealing stream I fixt mine eye,

Which to the long'd-for Ocean held its course, I markt nor crooks, nor rubs that there did lye Could hinder aught, but still augment its force:

O happy Flood, quoth I, that hold'st thy race
Till thou arrive at thy beloved place,
Nor is it rocks or shoals that can obstruct thy pace.

Nor is't enough, that thou alone may'st slide,

But hundred brooks in thy clear waves do meet, So hand in hand along with thee they glide

To Thetis' house, where all embrace and greet:
Thou Emblem true, of what I count the best,
Oh could I lead my Rivulets to rest,

So may we press to that vast mansion, ever blest.
Ye Fish which in this liquid region 'bide,
That for each season, have your habitation,
Now salt, now fresh, where you think best to glide,
To unknown coasts to give a visitation,
In lakes and ponds, you leave your numerous fry,
So nature taught, and yet you know not why,
You watry folk that know not your felicity."

Look how the wantons frisk to taste the air,
Then to the colder bottom straight they dive,
Eftsoon to Neptune's glassie Hall repair

To see what trade the great ones there do drive,
Who forage o'er the spacious sea-green field,
And take the trembling prey before it yield,
Whose armour is their scales, their spreading fins
their shield.

While musing thus with contemplation fed,

And thousand fancyes buzzing in my brain, The sweet tongued Philomel percht o'er my head, And chanted forth a most melodious strain Which rapt me so with wonder and delight, I judg'd my hearing better than my sight, And wisht me wings with her a while to take my flight.

O merry Bird (said I) that fears no spares,

That neither toyles nor hoards up in thy barn, Feels no sad thoughts, nor cruciating cares

To gain more good, or shun what might thee harm;

Thy cloaths ne'er wear, thy meat is every where,
Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water clear,
Reminds not what is past, nor what's to come dost
fear.

The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent,
Sets hundred notes unto thy feather'd crew,
So each one tunes his pretty instrument,

And warbling out the old, begins anew,
And thus they pass their youth in summer season,
Then follow thee into a better region,
Where winter's never felt by that sweet airy legion.

Man's at the best a creature frail and vain,

In knowledge ignorant, in strength but weak: Subject to sorrows, losses, sickness, pain,

Each storm his state, his mind, his body break: From some of these he never finds cessation, But day or night, within, without, vexation, Troubles from foes, from friends, from dearest, near'st relation.

And yet this sinful creature, frail and vain,

This lump of wretchedness, of sin and sorrow,
This weather-beaten vessel wreckt with pain,
Joyes not in hope of an eternal morrow:
Nor all his losses, crosses and vexation,
In weight, in frequency and long duration
Can make him deeply groan for that divine Transla
tion.

The Mariner that on smooth waves doth glide,
Sings merrily, and steers his barque with ease,
As if he had command of wind and tide,
And now become great Master of the seas;

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